


The first day (of the rest of our lives)

by StarAndMoon (TheDarkestStar)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Gen, M/M, No Sex, One Shot, Post-War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-10
Updated: 2013-10-10
Packaged: 2017-12-29 01:32:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,803
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/999293
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheDarkestStar/pseuds/StarAndMoon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ten days after the Battle of Hogwarts Harry and Draco bump into each other at a bar.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The first day (of the rest of our lives)

***

_It’s okay, it’s okay. Just close your eyes. Count the sheep, here we go. One... two... three.... ... Fifty seven... fifty eight... Fifty -- damn it!_

The closet door creaked open. _(No, I fixed you, I know I did!)_ Exasperated, Harry got up, opened the closet, grabbed all his things, and threw them across the room. _Reparo!_

_That’s better._ Harry flopped on the floor and started collecting his belongings. He never cared about keeping it neat, and on any other given day would’ve left it just lying there on the floor, but the moon was considerate enough to illuminate the mess he had made, and, though he thought it was foolish of him to think the moon was here to patronize him personally, he nonetheless began to fold each of his things as carefully as he could, sending angry glances at the window. Eventually the moon decided to move on, leaving him alone in the dark again, which Harry took as his cue to stick the rest of his things on the top shelf, and then - very carefully - lock the closet door.

No sound.

_Finally._ (Harry had a sudden urge to kick the door open again, but he settled on fixing his bed).

It was his third night at the Leaky Cauldron. Three days ago he announced he needed some time alone - and really meant it, at the time. Now he might’ve come to regret that decision, but it was too late: Hermione and Ron used this opportunity to finally stop trying to make him talk, and went to Australia to find Hermione’s parents; and Ginny... Well, the Weasleys had enough on their plate, he thought.

Of course, there were always Luna and Neville, but Neville was staying at Hogwarts now, and Harry didn’t feel like going back just yet. As for Luna...

“Luna is great” he said out loud. “Luna is brave, and fantastic, and bloody great.”

Harry went back to bed, trying not to think about the last time spoke to Luna, and how her allegories and soft voice made him feel as if the effect of gillyweed had worn off while he was still ten feet underwater.

The war was over, they won. People were reuniting with their families; the Daily Prophet became three times thicker; the Diagon Alley was being lit with fireworks every night; and everyone was hugging each other, - and him, of course, _especially_ him. The Boy Who Lived. Twice.

Harry sat on the bed staring at the window. The moon was back.

_What do you want now?_

He fixed the curtains. Then he fixed the bed again. Then he counted his socks, played magic chess with himself, cleaned his broom, brushed his teeth three times, took a shower, punched the creaking closet door, felt satisfied about it for a minute, fixed the door, went back to bed.

_One... Two... Three..._

At 2 am he gave up; put on his carefully folded clothes, covered his head with a cloak, punched the closet door again, and, ignoring the mournful squeak, promptly left the room.

***

The bar was packed.

It wasn’t surprising, really: these days, the Leaky Cauldron was always overcrowded. No one was hiding in the corners anymore, quietly sipping their drinks: it seemed now the concept of separate tables ceased to exist, along with working hours, order of speech and alcohol limits. Of course, they’d always find a table for _him_ , Harry thought, fixing the cloak around his head and regretting not bothering with a better disguise.

Luckily, there was always _that one table_ in the darkest of the corners, next to the broom closet and the loo. A table for one, which, by the new order, meant that no one was using it anymore. Careful not to touch anyone, Harry passed the loudest table, grabbed one of the beers (no one bothered with ordering these days), and hurried toward the corner, his eyes fixated on the blessed darkness promising to hide him from the view. He moved a chair all the way toward the wall, took a sip of his beer and sat down, leaning back, finally relaxing. A perfect spot: to observe, and not be observed. To be with everyone, but alone. This is exactly what he needed, he thought, and then he began to wonder if this was indeed a table for _him_ , prepared thoughtfully by someone who _understood_.

Even the creaking loo door wasn’t bothering him here. All these people, they were alive, they were happy, and they were drinking in his name. Harry took another sip.

“Do you want me to leave?” Harry jerked, spilling his beer.

A soft, familiar voice continued, toning down to a whisper. “ _Potter?_ ”

Harry slowly turned around. “... You.”

“Yeah.” Draco shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “Me.”

“What are you...” Harry began, but bit his tongue.

“I can move, if you want the table for yourself” Malfoy started to get up, somewhat awkwardly, considering the tight corner he had stuck himself in, but with such dignity as only Draco could. He tried very hard not to touch Potter’s sleeve and not to hit his head on the lamp hanging just above him, and Harry immediately started imagining Ron in such a situation (he surely would’ve already turned the table over, smashed the lamp with his head and exclaimed “Bloody Hell!” a couple dozen times).

Harry smiled a bit and moved the table toward him, providing Malfoy with some space. “No, it’s fine, you can stay.”

Malfoy seemed to have misinterpreted the smile, as his chin went up even higher; but he didn’t say anything. For a few seconds he continued to remain in his suppose-to-look-really-awkward position, examining the bar, then, ascertaining that there were no more empty tables in any corners for him, sat back down.

They proceeded to drink in silence, staring at the celebrating crowd. Finally, Harry gave in.

“So” he began, putting his glass on the table with a loud knock. Startled, Malfoy jerked back on the chair.

Harry grabbed his glass again and turned away.

In a couple more minutes, Draco’s curiosity got the best of him.

“ _So_ what, Po --”

“Shh!” Harry put his finger to his lips, nodding toward the crowd.

“Oh. Hiding, are you?”

“Very observant, are you?”

Draco gave him a cold glimpse. Harry took another sip.

“You do know your glass is empty, right”. Draco muttered, looking away.

“What?” Harry stared at Draco, then at his glass. “I... have just finished it” he answered, his voice going up a pitch.

“Do you want another one” Draco continued, in his half questioning, half stating tone, which made Harry feel incredibly annoyed. “No, thanks!” he said sharply, even though he definitely wanted another one, and had absolutely no desire to go back to the crowd.

“Yeah... Well, I’ll get two for myself then.”

***

 

Draco pushed the drink toward Harry.

“So... What have you been up to?” Draco began slowly, carefully weighing every word. Harry took a sip and felt a wave of heat rolling over him: the first glass seemed to be working its magic. “Noth... I’ve been staying here. Trying to... figure out what to do” ( _with the rest of my life_ , Harry added to himself). “What about you?”

“Me?” Draco snickered. “... Redecorating.”

Harry almost spit his drink. “What?”

“Mother decided we needed a few changes... at the Manor.” Draco gulped.

Harry opened his mouth to answer, but nothing came out.

“I personally don’t think painting a few walls will help though” Draco continued, his grey eyes fixated on the glass. “Not with _this_ ” he touched his left forearm. “But it makes her feel better, so I help, of course.”

Harry stared blankly at Malfoy, his mouth opened. Draco looked up and held the stare, and Harry suddenly felt his blood, poisoned with alcohol, fiercely attack his cheeks, and had to look away.

“What are you... doing here? So late, I mean” Harry mumbled after a prolonged pause.

Draco sighed. “Needed a break. Couldn’t sleep. You?”

Harry looked up at him. “Me too”.

Draco was staring at him so intensely Harry felt as he was being examined by Madam Pomfrey. “You look like hell, Potter. You are pale as a corpse, with black bags under your eyes”, he mumbled slowly.

“Thank you, Malfoy.”

“You look worse than ten days ago.” Draco continued, and Harry thought he heard a note of concern in his voice.

Draco tilted his head, absently looking around the bar. “I have been having trouble sleeping... ” he started, “for a while now. Since the sixth year.”

“I know” Harry blabbed.

Draco looked at him questioningly, then fetched an exasperated sigh. “Well, of course you do. What, you’ve been spying on me?”

“Yes, and you know exactly why I was doing it!” Harry said sharply. It came out more defensive than he intended, but whatever, he wasn’t about to _apologize_ to _Malfoy_. Why was he even here? What was he doing, talking to him? Why didn’t he let him leave?

That damn insomnia has been messing with his brain, that’s for sure.

Draco finished his drink, put the glass on the table, leaned back on the chair and stared expectedly at Potter, waiting for a reaction.

Harry had hoped that two glasses would be enough to make him feel drowsy, but they didn’t seem to have any effect whatsoever. “Do you want another round!” he finally announced, as though challenging Draco to a duel.

Looking alarmed, Draco mumbled something under his nose, but got up nonetheless. This time, he brought back a whole pitcher.

“Are you a mean drunk, Potter?”

“No one is making you stay.”

Draco moved closely to the table. “Well, I was here first, so.”

“What are you, eleven?”

Draco backed away. Harry sighed and start pouring beer into glasses, glimpsing at Malfoy, who seemed to be reluctantly trying to blow an invisible ballon.

Finally, he started talking again.

“I’m trying, okay. It’s not bloody easy, you know. I don’t know what to say to you.”

Harry knew exactly what he meant. Draco spent so many years making sure no one sees as vulnerable, as weak, it would be naive to think some shared beer and - well, even saving his life - would change anything between them.

But Harry didn’t want to go back to his creaking closet door and friendless room, and had already half-convinced himself that Draco was sitting on some sort of a miracle insomnia cure, so why not to give it a shot.

“I can’t sleep” Harry said. “I get anxious and paranoid, and I’m not sure I --” he stopped abruptly.

“You what.”

“I’m not even sure what’s real anymore. What has happened, what has _really_ happened.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.” Harry ran his finger along the glass.

“Well, I can assure you, this is real” Draco said very seriously.

Harry smirked. “This? You and me, sitting and drinking beer together, this your proof of reality?”

“Well. Look around you. Do you really think you have rich enough fantasy to make up all these people?”

Harry rolled his eyes. “You...”

“Potter” Draco interrupted. “Look. If this is your fantasy - I’m very flattered, by the way - but if it is, what do you think the reality is, then?”

“I don’t know” Harry was getting irritated. “I didn’t think about it! Maybe I... maybe I died and didn’t come back. Maybe Voldemort used Cruciatus one too many, and now I’m lying comatose at St. Mungo’s”.

Draco stared at Harry again. His mouth was slightly opened, revealing the row of white teeth. He was squinting, and stretched out his hand toward Harry. Harry wasn’t an expert in Malfoy expressions, but he was pretty sure by now this combination meant great concern. _Fantastic. Draco Malfoy thinks I’m insane._

“What do your friends say about this?”

“I didn’t tell them” Harry sighed out.

“Harry” Draco said abruptly. Harry jerked in his chair, surprised to hear his name. “Why can’t you sleep?”

“I...” Harry gulped. “When I close my eyes... I just keep replaying it all, you know? And people die. I’m not there, I don’t... and each time, I see them all just --- die”. Harry shut his eyes.

“Harry! Hey! Hey! Look at me! Open your eyes!” Draco pinched his hand so painfully Harry jerked.

“What?”

“You saved my life” Draco said flatly. “You _were_ there, and you _didn’t_ die, and you saved my bloody life, and probably half the people in this bloody bar. Now --- shut up, Potter, don’t interrupt me --- now, I know you think I have some dark magic cure for this, but I don’t.”

“Well then I’m screwed then.”

“Well, my recipe for today is for you to get drunk enough to pass out.” Draco poured him another glass.

“That doesn’t sound even remotely like a good plan.”

“You know what doesn’t sound remotely good? The Boy Who Lived Twice dying of exhaustion because he hasn’t slept in ten days.” Draco pushed the glass toward him. Harry took a sip.

“That’s it then? Are you suggesting I drink myself to sleep every night?”

“No, you idiot!” Draco raised his voice. “That’s phase one.”

“What’s phase two?”

“Always ahead of the train, are you, Potter?”

“Well, how many phases are there?”

“I don’t know yet! Honestly, you think if I knew I’d be sitting here alone at 3 am? It’s work in progress.”

“So you’re making up the phases, then” Harry laid his head on his hands, stretching all over the table, his cloak half-fallen. “And want to test them on me, is that it?”

“Believe me, I tried many on myself way before you happened to walk in on me in here. Besides, I’m sure you’d have a different set. Mine mostly consists of making amends.”

Harry tried to fix his cloak, but it kept slipping from his hands.

“Are you alright, Potter?”

“Yeah, I just... Yeah, I’m fine!” Harry threw back his head, his eyeglasses left lying on the table.

“Maybe you should move the party upstairs, because I have no clue how to carry your unconscious body without drawing attention to myself.”

“Hmmm. What about you?” “What about me?”

“Well, I kinda want to know about your steps now.”

Draco hesitated. “Fine. I’ll come with you, but only for ten more minutes. I need to go home and help my Mother. What room are you in?”

“The... The first one. I don’t know. The closest one to the stairs.”

“Go there, then. I’ll grab us another pitcher and clean glasses” Malfoy glanced at theirs with disgust.

Harry obliged.

***

It’s been a couple of hours since they’ve left the bar. (Draco had jinxed the curtains to keep the room dimmed, but Harry knew the sun must’ve been already up). Malfoy has already run twice downstairs, and even managed to bring them some food (of course, he himself decided not to touch it, claiming he wasn’t _that_ hungry).

They didn’t discuss the Battle; in fact, Draco kept changing the topic of conversation as soon as Harry mentioned anything related to Hogwarts.

They talked about Quidditch, though, and Harry told Malfoy about the Muggle games: football and basketball (Draco tried very hard to look impressed). Cars seemed to interest Malfoy a bit more, but then Harry went on telling him about that time he and Ron almost got killed by the Whomping Willow, and Draco promptly changed the subject. “Do you know how they make paintings talk?” he said abruptly. Harry didn’t.

Pretty soon Harry began to drowse off, and could’ve sworn Draco jinxed the last pitcher, but he was drinking from it too, and it didn’t seem to have any effect on him. Or maybe he was just smart enough to choose a topic that would surely put Harry to sleep, since he was still going on and on about different types of canvas repair techniques.

“What did they use on the Fat Lady after Sirius?” Harry asked, yawning.

“I think you’ve had enough, Potter.” Draco took the glass out of his hand.

“But I really wanna know.” It was probably the last thing in the world Harry wanted to know, and Draco surely was aware of it, but he grinned nonetheless.

“I’ll tell you all about it tomorrow” Draco got up and went toward the door.

“Go sleep it off.”

“Wait. Tomorrow?” Harry was already lying in the bed, eyes closed.

“Yeah... Yeah” Draco was already in the doorway. “I mean... If you want me to.” He turned around, waiting for a response.

“Sounds like a plan” Harry mumbled, hugging a pillow and succumbing to sleep.

Draco threw one last glance at him drooling on his beloved pillow, limbs stretched all across the bed and buried under the blankets. The closet door creaked open. _("Damn it, Potter, no wonder you can’t sleep!")_

Sighing, he took out his wand and whispered something under his nose.

_"Now, that’s better."_


End file.
